


Delphinium

by NinaFey



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Murder Wives AU, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinaFey/pseuds/NinaFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Flowers were coming out of his breast, they say. Snapdragons and rhododendrons, where his heart should be. Out for the world to see.” </p><p>Victorian Murder Wives AU. References to the occult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by this photoset: http://sungl0ry.tumblr.com/post/112180274348/murder-wives-victorian-au  
> I should point out that this is not fem!Hannigram. There might be some similarities, because they cannot be avoided, but I'm trying to keep what we know of their personalities as intact as possible.

She observed the ball and its attendants, seeking a point of interest as she entered. It was a gathering for the crème de la crème, as Chilton, in his pomposity, had worded it. His tone indicated that his flattery was more directed at himself than at her. He had looked for gratitude in her face when he delivered his invitation, as if to emphasize her good fortune; still welcomed in the society of men after the death of her father while still carrying his surname after her Christian name. Maybe Frederick Chilton enjoyed having an English-French hybrid to present at his gatherings, part of his exhibition. Not at all dissimilar to the séance that would no doubt take place tonight. Just like a man of his calibre to play with forces he could not understand.

Only a few minutes had elapsed when she heard her name uncomfortably roll off the tongue of her host. “Ms. Du Maurier, pleasure to have you amongst my company.”  

“I assure you doctor, the pleasure is mine.” Her lips formed a thin smile, not baring her teeth, as to cloud her face with modesty. “Quite a night to have arranged a gathering.” She told him referring to the stormy weather that haunted the night.

“It adds to ambience, I believe. I wish I could take credit for it, but I cannot yet control the skies, Ms. Du Maurier.” He led her to a larger group of people, where she’d finally be free of him. Most of the faces were familiar to her and they all turned to greet her. The women remarked on the details of her gown and the men on the greatness of her late father. It was not long before the conversation had shifted towards the makings and threads of their society and she found herself wishing for wine, to dull her senses. Thunder, instead, answered her silent plea. The room seemed to have been shaken by its strength and everyone had been rattled it by it; silencing them for a few precious seconds.

“How wonderful” Bedelia thought. “To be the thing that instils such fear.” It was not the first time the thought had crossed her mind.

_Hearing the rain drowning the sound of music and the faint smell of fire in the room, she transported herself to a night similar to this one. She was holed up with her governess in front of the fire place of their country estate. The men had spotted a wolf roaming the property, and wolves seldom travelled alone. They were specific instructions to stay indoors until the beast had been killed. It had been hours and the sun had set, and any animal was still to be found. They had heard the men’s frantic calls and even their hushed voices. Bedelia could smell the gun powder being stuffed into the rifles. She could picture their nervous hearts beating faster whenever they heard a sound in the woods. Perched by the window now, the torches they used were visible to her. As were their anxious expressions, whenever they edged closer the house._

_“Delia, retournez ici” Josephine called for her from an armchair, holding out her hand to her. Bedelia obeyed and sat on her lap. Her governess tucked errant strands of Bedelia’s blonde hair behind her ear and then held her hand. “N’ayez pas peur. The men will take care of it.” She told her as she held the child’s hand. Even then, she sensed that confessing that it was fascination and not fear she felt, would be wrong. It was at that moment she decided that she did not wish to be merely unafraid and felt envious of the beast being hunted. How wonderful, to be capable of frightening men so. She let herself be lulled to sleep by the vibrations produced by Josephine’s voice; she could feel them trapped in her breast, desperate to get out._

She was pleased to discover that in the time she had revisited the past, the group had become smaller. The men had been called away by Chilton, to be shown either some artefact he had ‘acquired’ in his travels or some crude photograph that should never be observed by delicate female eyes. It was as if a spell had been lifted off the women while simultaneously forcing them to lower their voices. But for the first time in the evening, their voices were true.

“Flowers were coming out of his breast, they say.” Mary Howard said with a small tremor in her voice. “Snapdragons and rhododendrons, where his heart should be. Out for the world to see.”

“His body was left, or shall I say arranged, in Chancery Lane.” Emma Shelton added. “It is not even the first one of the type to have been found.”

“Is that true?”

“I over-heard George speaking with a solicitor in his study. He was at the Courts where an officer told him the body of Jude Thomas was not the first to be exposed in such a way. A man’s corpse was found near South Kensignton, also… to use your word Mary, _arranged_ in a similar way. With his liver missing. It was thought to be unique at the time…”

“Who was he?”

“I had moved away from the door before I could hear his name. I couldn’t let George know I had been standing there.”

“Strange that it should not make it to the papers. You would think that is something that would be of interest to the general public.” Bedelia remarked as she was handed a drink.

“Men are fragile creatures. I doubt they could handle their existence being threatened so publicly.” A delicate voice she did not recognize said. “Not like we can, in any matter.”

“What a thing to say, Ms. Bloom!” Mary Howard chastised the stranger. Her meek smile denoted shame about her statement but her sharp blue eyes betrayed her as unmoved by the comment. “I think we all should be worried about this killer.” Mary added, covering her mouth with her hand. “South Kensington, Chancery Lane. Awfully close to home.”

“I wouldn’t say that just yet, Mrs. Howard” The stranger added with an odd calm upon her face. Bedelia studied her features. She had almost translucent skin and pleasantly thin lips. Just a hint of colour rose to her cheeks as she spoke. Her dark hair was held together in a high chignon and she wondered what it would be like to see it flowing free in a breeze.

“I’m curious, what makes you think our safety is guaranteed?” Bedelia asked her, she realised with the attention of a botanist would give a rare flower, completely discovered by accident.

“I meant to say, that the killer seems to be chasing men.” The sweetness of her voice could almost hide her certainty, _almost_.  “The murders are not without some moral motivation. Judging by the killer’s affinity for messages.” Their gazes were now fixated on each other and Bedelia did not intend to break it, even if she could sense the atmosphere growing heavy with foreign discomfort.

“Messages?” Bedelia encouraged softly, letting herself be drawn closer to her.

“The flowers, surely you…”

“Alana!” Suddenly hissed Mary Howard lowly. “I think, we have all had enough of this talk. I regret even bringing it up.” The men were returning, which seemed to be the source of her distress. Mrs. Howard dare not be exposed in front of Mr. Howard.

Alana Bloom laughed lightly, as if she had been caught stealing a sweet from the kitchen. Her countenance seemed to suggest that it had all been in good sport, her fun had not and would not be spoiled.

The talk of marriages and travels to the East and America resumed once the company had its numbers restored and the female whispers had been replaced with appropriate and practiced chuckles. However, the aura of strangeness still surrounded Alana. She laughed politely at the Howards’ remarks, which made her their guest, Bedelia decided. A guest out in London to enjoy the curiosities the new era had to offer, expensive drinks, men’s tales of grandeur and communion with the dead. She was expected to be grateful to be in such company, as was she. Ms. Bloom was supposed to be taken aback and perhaps, watch her tongue, judging by Mrs. Howard’s censure. She could sense that the evening was slowly pulling them together until everyone else had been excluded from their conversation.

“I have a feeling we have not been properly introduced.” Bedelia said as that only she would hear. “Bedelia Du Maurier.” She extended her hand to her, and was met with the warmth held in Alana’s palm.

“No, we have not, I’m afraid. The Howards were neglectful in that respect” Her volume matched Bedelia’s, but her tone remained light-hearted. Her candour could have passed for bluntness had it not been delivered with such softness. “Alana Bloom. Delighted to be in your company”

A soft laugh escaped Bedelia. “I believe that is the first time that statement was sincere tonight.”

“I could hardly think that to be true.” She offered gently. “Mrs. Howard told me this is the event of the season. She arranged my visit as that it would coincide with tonight.”

“And how are you finding it, Ms. Bloom?” It was a tempting question, Bedelia knew. One that would test the subject’s honesty.

“It is all done so tastefully and it is perfectly orchestrated. Even the weather.” Alana looked around themselves, as if searching for spies.

“I sense an objection coming up.” She locked her eyes with hers and gave her a small encouraging nod, visible only to Alana.

“I think everyone here likes to pretend to be more comfortable with death than they actually are, madam.” The sharpness of the statement sent a pulse throughout her body. To have such clarity was a rare gift. To be undisturbed by it was even rarer. “You alone are exempted from this.”

Alana’s last sentence had managed to capture her and she knew she would not be leaving her side for the reminder of the night. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Your interest in the conversation surrounding Jude Thomas was not motivated by morbid gossip. It was speculation on the killer that drew you in.” She paused and smiled briefly, and only continued when she found reassurance in Bedelia’s expression. “Not to mention, you do not seem to be intrigued by the prospect of the séance. Only someone with a true understanding of death would be disinterested in this new…oddity. I hope you are not offended”

“No.” Her voice remained temperate and hardly above a whisper. “It’s refreshing to be seen so clearly.”

“That either implies everyone else’s vision is clouded, which is likely, or that you have chosen to obscure their vision.” The manner of her speech made it sound like an innocent observation, one that could be made about a small creature of the woods.

“Which one do you think is the correct assumption, Ms. Bloom?” She realized that this was her true self peering through her cloak. She placed her hand on her chest, as if that would contain the excitement imprisoned there.

“Both, I would imagine. Their vision would not so easily impaired if they did not wish it to be; they only see as much as they want to see.” Her smile was full this time bearing an air of immodest triumph. A sight, Bedelia felt, was reserved only for her.

“A frightening concept. Men under the spell of their own deceptions.” Her words were chosen carefully.

“Yes. Perhaps men are under such enchantments…” She looked around once more, breathing softly in relief at the safe distance between them and Mary Howard.

“But we are not.” Maybe Bedelia was taking a risk, disrobing herself so and under such clear gaze, but release was imperative at this point.

“No. I doubt that is possible.” She took a small sip of her drink and averted her eyes away from her, as if warning of incoming danger. The look in her eyes, much like the thunder had, triggered her memory.

_It was the morning after the hunt, and she had manoeuvred herself away from under Josephine’s protective embrace and left the bed quietly. She carried that same grace and silence as she made her way to the stables. There she found the beast’s corpse, strapped to a table. Its grey fur was tainted with blood and its body battered. She ran her small hands across the animal’s face, realizing she could no longer feel envious of it. It had been spotted as it roamed the property, caught in the sight of a hunter. If only that one person had decided to release it, or aid its escape, it would not have been robbed of its dignity. It would not have been so brutally denied its life. It had been the animal’s mistake to allow itself to be seen._

Then came the danger Alana’s eyes had warned her about, guests were gathering around them once more, in expectation of an announcement by the host.

“My dear guests this evening has proved as excellent as I had anticipated. And though I cannot take responsibility for conjuring up the lightning for the occasion, I can take credit for bringing Madame Fabian here.” He paused as if to add importance to his statements. “Now, we please ask that you join us in the next room to begin our séance.”

Her gaze was met halfway by Alana’s in quiet complicity. As they let the rest of the guests pass them on their way to Madam Fabian’s Bedelia felt the quiet happiness that accompanies a realization. This sudden exposure of hers would not result in her corpse strapped to a country table. If anything, it was a distinct howl. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe she was like the sea, tranquil in its strength but utterly devastating. Their beauty could not be helped  
> -Communion with the dead, the state of society and reflections of Ms. Bloom

It was a large room, the one that held all the expectant believers awaiting for the dead. It reeked of opulence, paintings that must be expensive fakes−not that the host would know that− uncomfortable furniture and a chandelier that threatened to murder all those who sat underneath it. Alana sighed as quietly as she could, she had no respect for such a farce as this séance. As if the dead would remain in a suspended state of boredom ready to be summoned and answer mundane questions about their lives. The situation was not entirely unfortunate, though. There were allowed to sit were they pleased and she had discretely taken her place next to Bedelia Du Maurier. Silently, she studied the older woman. Her elegance was not practiced, it flowed naturally throughout her whole body. She seemed immaculately arranged, her features were far from common and worthy of intimate study. There was also her serene composure and the voice that was barely raised. She pled not to be seen, not by just anyone. A victorious feeling invaded Alana, knowing that she had been afforded a sort of privilege. The joy of found kinship spread through her face, she knew. It was acknowledged by Bedelia with a side glance.

By no accident was the flesh of their bare arms lightly touching, Alana felt her warmth mingling with the coolness of Bedelia’s pearl-like skin.  This bubble of an interaction was proving to be more hypnotic than animal magnetism. Undisturbed, she could have left herself be in such a state for hours. But Frederick Chilton and Madame Fabian had other plans. The look on his face betrayed his smugness and his way of speaking was too extravagant for a man with so little worth attached to him. All performances, after all, are given to attach value to one-self. Chilton just happened to be a performer with no substance.

“ Please join your hands together. The spirts need souls be conjoined.” Said Madame Fabian in an accent that seemed to a mix of Wallachian and French creole, no doubt fabricated to appeal to the audience. Despite the poorness of the act, she was glad that the request was made, as her fingers were quickly interlaced with Bedelia’s. Colour rose to her cheeks and she was glad the candle lighting somewhat obscured it. Her quickened pulse, however, was the obvious traitor. It had clearly been detected by the other woman, as discrete air of satisfaction came upon her eyes.

“Ah yes. Spirits strong tonight. Happy to be called to this place.” Madame Fabian’s eyes were closed and her breathing was purposefully erratic.  “Please, show us you are here.” There was a tapping in directly behind Alana and Bedelia. The rest of the party was startled and amazed and scared murmurs could be heard. She remained unconvinced and judging by their lightness of Bedelia’s squeeze on her hand, so did she. It was a mark of understanding and perhaps complicit mocking.

“Good. Very good.” Madame Fabian was earning her fee splendidly. “Now can you…” Her head was suddenly thrown back and her body was made rigid. A deeper voice and distinctly English voice came from her mouth.

“Percy, boy. What have you done to yourself? I see you for all you are. My poor Helena, abandoned that way. Grey like an old mare. How could you, Attila?” She was looking straight at one of the guests. A fairly young man with a twisted moustache and now eyes that presently carried with them terror. That last word had seemed to have planted the fear of Satan in him.

Madame Fabian’s body then seemed to shrink and high voice replaced the deep one. “Mama, mama. Why did you ever let go like that?” Her eyes locked on Bethany Wells, who could barely see due to the amount of tears that were being contained. This was all a cruel joke, thought Alana. Disgustingly and expertly planned. It was predatory and she knew their host was all revelling in it.

The voice changed once more, to a husky and older female voice. “Jack, won’t you come with me?” Jack Lewis, a man with a broad waist and few hairs, then got up and decidedly broke the link with two other guests and left the room, shaking.  Madame Fabian pushed herself back into the chair and shook her head, as if to clear it. She returned to her fake Wallachian and French Creole accent “Spirits too strong. I apologize.”  Most eyes were fixed upon the medium, in disbelief and horror. But it was an amused sort of horror, they were all children probing at the dark and believing the unknown shapes to be ghouls and monsters.

It had not dawned on Alana that every other guest had broken their connections to each other as her hand remained firmly clasped with Bedelia’s.  It was only Chilton’s call to reassemble in the next room, as food had been put out, that forced their separation.  She looked for signs of shame in her face, any trace of regret, but there were none. Her expression was that of complete serenity, as if nothing had transpired in the room they were in. Perhaps she had experienced too many séances to be moved by them. Or was it the recognition of the falseness of the act that left her unperturbed?

“I think Mr. Chilton got his money’s worth.” Bedelia said lowly while turning her face toward her.

“In bad taste, wouldn’t you say?” She replied with distinct disapproval in her voice.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t have been one of Mr. Chilton’s gatherings if it hadn’t been.” She paused to moisten her lips. “No doubt he spent weeks gathering the pertaining gossip for Madame Fabian.” She detected they were the last ones at the table and gracefully left her seat. “There is still more to this evening, Ms. Bloom.” Her words denoted gloom and resignation about the rest of the gathering.

Alana cast a look at the guests while joining Bedelia on her feet. “There is, although I do not think it to be a bad thing. “ Her gaze was deliberate as was the perceptible suggestion in her voice.

“You may be right” Slowly, they were joining the rest in the adjoining room.

“I often am.” Alana took the liberty of such boldness. She had the distinct feeling that her honesty and self-aggrandizing would be met with appreciation and not censure. And she desperately longed to hear it.

“I do not doubt it.” The shadow of pleased smile crept on Bedelia’s face.

The rest of the evening brought with it circulation through various small groups of people and more polite exchanges among people Alana had just met. She could certainly see why Mary Howard would have arranged her visit to begin on this night; it was a lavish demonstration of wealth and the imitation of intellectualism. It was a gathering that was sure to impress a middle-class Northerner such as herself. This was supposed to demonstrate the worlds of separation between Durham and London, evidence of how far Mrs. Howard had come. She no longer was the youngest of three sisters from the provincial North but the wife of Henry Howard, now living in Kensignton. This visit had partly being arranged by Alana’s worried mother, afraid that her daughter of six and twenty would end up destitute.  Mrs. Bloom, a widow looked after by Alana’s older brother, needn’t worry about her well-being, but it was always made abundantly clear that Ms. Bloom was becoming a burden with each passing year. Alana’s attempts at employment were frustrated by her own family, claiming that an office such as a governess or school teacher would only sully her prospects.

_“Alana, look at that face. God wouldn’t have given you such a face and such a sweetness of temperament if he did not intend you to marry well.” Her mother told her as she packed gowns and dresses into her trunk._

_“Who are we to know God’s plans, mama?” She had meant to say that she did not want a husband. That she had strongly refused David Carter’s proposal at nineteen. That she had all but run away from William Lucas at twenty and laughed in the face of one Stephen Morris at two and twenty. But such confessions would sent her mother into a fit of rage._

_“Always the arrogance with you, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bloom scolded her as if she were still a child. “Try to keep that under control in London.”_

_“Yes, mama.” She threw in a couple of volumes into the trunk followed by a couple of pairs of gloves._

_“Just remember, this is London. Bigger and better society. Who knows who you might meet?” She was obviously fantasizing about a Captain who would fall desperately in love with her and take her the West Indies to live some sort of badly thought out fantasy. “For all you know, you might be soon writing to me telling you are not to return to Chester-le-Street at all.”_

_“Maybe, mama. But please do not put sheets over my furniture until I send word.”_

_“Hush, child.” She teasingly hit Alana a folded scarf. “Just try and open yourself up to possibilities.”_

_“I will. I promise”_

Alana smiled as she realized she had not said a word for a minute or two and was perhaps too content to simply be listening to Bedelia’s quiet voice.

“…and who can say that the life and the reality of Mr. Lewis is any greater than our own? Is there an impartial judge and ruler of society that ascribes more value to the life of one group than to the rest?” If it had been anyone else, Bedelia’s statement could have sounded impassioned and vibrant with fire, but distinct stillness ruled here. Maybe she was like the sea, tranquil in its strength but utterly devastating. Their beauty could not be helped.

“As a good Englishwoman, I’d have to retort that would be God, followed by her Majesty.” Her words were decidedly becoming more her own and less of society’s. “But as I am in fact not a decent subject, I would have to say that is men who have stolen value and meaning from society. Or rather, have given it false absolute values.”

“True.” Bedelia placed her hand on Alana’s forearm briefly. “Wouldn’t it just be like an Englishman to place himself at the centre of all reason? Even if he has little understanding of the greater machinations and mysteries of the universe he claims to be ruler of?”

Alana laughed louder than she had intended. “Madam, I fear that men in general are capable of finding mysteries in their own trousers. Everything seems to be perplexing enough to merit burrowed brows.”

“And that is the salvation of our sex. Their ability to be so self-engrossed.”  Bedelia seemed to be immune to the danger of their conversation could pose to both of them. It was a strange form of reassurance for Alana.

“A blissfully ignorant existence. I…”

 

“Ah, Ms. Du Maurier, I see you have made good friends with a dear Ms. Bloom.”  Henry Howard appeared with his wife anchored at his arm.  A spark of embarrassment was visible across Mary’s face, realising her breech in etiquette by forgetting to introduce the two women.  

“Yes, Mr. Howard. I have been fortunate enough to have enjoyed her company tonight.” The hidden depth of her words were lost on the Howards.

“You are too kind.” She replied with measured politeness.

“Ms. Bloom should be honoured, I say. Your father, Doctor Du Maurier was held in high esteem across our society. And you are a testament to his legacy of charity, if I may so, madam.” Henry Howard said solemnly.

“Thank you, Mr. Howard. It is a too generous a compliment, but the sentiment is much appreciated.”

“Such modesty, should be an example to us all.” He replied, with Mary’s expression frozen in an unnatural smile. A few more pleasantries were exchanged among the four of them before Chilton said his last words and officially brought the evening to a close. Mr. Howard sent word both his and Ms. Du Maurier coaches be fetched.

“I really do expect you to call on me soon, Ms. Bloom” Bedelia’s words were calculated, as if they were to be perceived as nothing more than shallow politeness.

“Of course, madam.” Their eyes locked one last time, with little regard to their surroundings. 

Once in their coach, Mrs. Howard appeared to sulk. Perceiving her lack of invitation a slight on her person, though she supposed it to be only fair as she had forgotten her manners earlier that evening. But that did not stop her from spouting a few bitter phrases.

“Six and thirty and unmarried too. Taciturn woman.”

“Mary, if your estate were surrounded by both sides of the Thames and had such a vast fortune, you too could afford to be a taciturn as that.” 

“I know.” She replied shortly. “It is not like Ms. Bloom is in any position to decline her invitation, anyway.”

“No, I am not.” Alana said modestly, she could not tease or contradict her host more than once in one night.  “Nor would I want to.” She thought to herself as she closed her eyes and laid her head back and listened to sound of the horse’s hooves against the stone.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to shorten Alana and Bedelia's age by ten years to have fit in better with the era. I tend to write reflective and dialogue heavy chapters, so apologies for that! I promise there is plot behind the story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is just us now. I think formalities can be dropped, if that suits you.”

For the first time Alana felt her heart caged in her chest, it threaten to cut through her ribcage and escape from her as she sat in her carriage. It had been almost a half hour since she had sitting there, staring out the window and her pulse refused to settle down. It was ridiculous feeling and the fact that she understood it so well only made her more uneasy. It was excitement. A letter had arrived a few days ago, written in perfect calligraphy. The hand that wrote it was indeed masterful and the words were strung together effortlessly. If had come from anyone else, she would have assume it would have taken the writer hours to craft it. But it had come from Bedelia du Maurier, reminding her of her standing invitation and putting her own coach to the service. She related the information to Mary, whose face only grew sour and took even more insult at Bedelia’s offer of a carriage.

 _“We have a perfectly fine coach and horses available to us. You are **our** guest, Ms. Bloom.”_ What she meant to say was, of course, that she would not be deemed inferior. Mary could not resist the opportunity to flaunt her status. This was yet another slight on her person, she thought. Maybe Alana should not have mentioned it, but then again she was not sure Mary did not deserve to have her ego toned down.  She hid a smile under her gloved hand even if there was no one from whom it should be concealed.

As the minutes progressed, people and coaches decreased. The City was getting quieter and greener. There were no shops here, nothing to attract the busy murmurs of people. The only thing she knew for certain was that there were fine gardens and that the river flowed through both sides of the borough. It seemed like a place she would never want to leave, that if anything else existed outside of it, she did not care to know it.  She had been too caught up admiring her surroundings to notice that the horses had ceased their gallop and were now stationed outside a great estate. One that was sure to rival any aristocratic taste.  It was only when her driver had opened the coach door for her when she realised she had arrived.  He held out her hand for her and once she looked upon the place, she could not help but have her breath caught in her chest.

"Mrs. Howard has instructed me to await on your word, when you are in need to return to the house, Ms. Bloom” He said cordially, probably looking at her more warmly that was appropriate.

There was servant waiting there for them, her expression serene and her posture as straight as an arrow. “I do not believe that will be necessary, sir. If Ms. Bloom is to return to South Kensington, our driver is more than happy to take her there.”

“Very well. I will tell Mrs. Howard as much.” He knew better than to try and argue simply to win the favour of his employer over a trivial detail.

“This way, ma’am.” She led Alana in through the enormous front door. Alana had to conceal her admiration for the place and observe as much as she could discretely. It was a refined estate, but it was not at all similar to any other home she had ever been in. It was not ostentatious, everything seemed to be composed of simple straight lines and clean colours. Only the brick exterior seemed to have the luxury to possses a strong colour accompanied with its green ivy. The furniture was all excellently carved and placed around the house as if they were ready to be painted into the background of a still life portrait.

“Just a few more yards to go. Ms. Du Maurier is the gardens in the back, the only way to them is going through the house, I’m afraid.” Her tone seemed apologetic, as if she were concerned with Alana growing bored or tired.

“It’s quite all right.” She replied warmly.

“Here we are. She’s just off to your right, ma’am.”

“Thank you…” Alana trailed off as if asking for her name.

“Clementine ma’am.” There was a shy and slightly embarrassed smile on Clementine’s face. Alana was getting the impression that they did not receive many guests.

“Thank you, Clementine.”

A garden that had been an understatement, revolutions could be started just based on this garden alone.  There was seemingly no end to it and the flowers and plants were all arranged as to make it seem that they had simply sprouted there, with no intervention of the human hand. She was glad that it was spring, for they all seemed to be greeting her. Two distinct barks suddenly erupted as she got closer to her hostess.

“Maryse, Colette, shush.” It was a soft command but the two dogs ceased their barking and returned to their mistress’s side, who was now standing ready to receive her guest.  “Forgive them, Ms. Bloom. They’re not used to strangers. And are fiercely protective” They were magnificent animals, poised and well bred. The Croatian Dalmatians, if she was not mistaken,were firmly seated as if awaiting orders.

“It’s not a problem, madam. I’m actually quite fond of dogs.” There it was again. Her breath prisoner to her emotions and her heart threatening to leave her body. Alana was sure she had abandoned all modesty as she gazed at Bedelia. She seemed to glow under the sunlight, wisps of hair gently moving with the spring breeze. There was such regard in her eyes and for the first time since she had been in London, she had felt truly welcomed. There was no performance of friendship here, and she was grateful for it. Her eyes were quickly drawn to her waist, it was free and untouched. She was not wearing corset underneath her dress. And the effects were visible, her breathing was at ease and her movements as she approached her were fluid and natural. If she were to be seen like this outside her garden, outside her walls… But she was engaged in deep and blatant admiration of her figure to be too concerned about it.

“It is just us now. I think formalities can be dropped, if that suits you.” Bedelia kissed her cheek as was customary, and she returned the gesture. Her blood was rushing all over her body and would soon arrive to rogue her cheeks. Her body, the eternal traitor.

“I cannot say I object to that.” She replied, still refraining from addressing her by first name. “I am too grateful to be here.” She added

“You say that as if I were doing you a favour, Alana. It is not, the invitation was entirely selfish.” She looped her arm around hers and led her down a pathway in the gardens. Maryse and Collette closely followed behind, sniffing Alana as she walked.

“I’m glad to hear that. Although I meant to say that I am extremely glad to have left the Howards, even if for a day.”

“I cannot imagine Mrs. Howard is too pleased with me…”

“Not that it is of any importance to you.” Alana dared to say, still struck by Bedelia.

“No.” She said quietly and only with a hint of a smile and subtle squeeze to Alana’s arm.

Seeing Bedelia here, surrounded by her elements, only made her fondness grow. There was no doubt that she was the mistress of all that laid here, even the wind seemed to respond to her. Light only hit her face to accentuate her features and the damp in the grass did not take hold on her. Had this been a different era men would have accused her of witchcraft just by the way everything seemed to bend to her will.  Even time was not immune, she was certain only a few minutes had gone by when she asked if she cared to go inside, for it not only seemed like rain but the Sun was not warm anymore.

She could not have not have known that where the true enchantment would begin. They had tea as they discussed books they were not supposed to have read. The not so blatant attempts of authors to erase or victimize their sex in the pages of fiction and science alike.

“Prison. That is what they are attempting to make of our lives. We are not even allowed to breathe or take up space.” A soft sigh left Bedelia. There was no outrage, only the collected calm that comes with the statement of facts.

“Which is why your corset lies discarded.” She raised her eyes to catch her own, to reassure her that it was not a thinly veiled insult. It was a praise, as if saying she wished she had the same opportunity.

Bedelia smiled, flattered by the observation. “Here I am allowed to breathe, there is nothing I do not own, including myself. Which is why I seldom leave.”

“Except to make the occasional appearance in society, as if to appease curious onlookers.”

“A necessary evil. Would you not agree?”

“You say that if I did not practice it myself.”

 

More time that was appropriate was spent at the Du Maurier estate. In fact, she kept returning to the Howards’ because they were still her hosts and owed them a debt of gratitude. Alana made sure to make time for Mary Howard, her errands and her friends. She made polite conversation and only occasionally did she say something that would cause Mary to raise an eyebrow, by all accounts, she was an exemplary guest. All of that made her visits to Bedelia less worthy of talk, it hid how deeply she ached to be there at all times. It was more than infatuation or longing. She was free there and with her. The place was minimally staffed and so it seemed that they were both alone with their words and ideas. In an afternoon tea in the company of Mrs. Howard and four of her friends, she could only recall the way Bedelia’s fingers danced across the keys of a piano. The music was melancholic, as if it were a cry of longing, and her arms and wrists coordinated with each note. There were no dramatic and hard movements, only soft fluid ones.

“Ms. Bloom, you seem to be somewhere else today!” One of Mary’s friends remarked with a polite chuckle.

“I’m sorry, I believe I was.”

* * *

 

_The wind was being particularly harsh tonight, but it shouldn’t matter. He had warm beer in his stomach and the contentment that comes with money well spent. The whore he had visited tonight had been more than accommodating, she had been everything gentlemen of taste had spoken about. Sure, the establishment had been a sorry place with cheap pornographic imagery for wallpaper and the stench of incense but his night could not have gone better. Not even the threat of rain could dampen his mood, he felt almost felt heroic. The long-haired Samson, the virile Hercules! Or why stop there? He was positive he would be able to produce lightning with his own hands the way he felt now.  His feet were strong against the cobble stone and he indeed did feel like a giant walking in these city streets. He was sure that if the sun were shinning or the street lights shone brighter than gas allowed them everyone would appreciate his glorious countenance. He was a man, and had proven it again tonight. What joy!_

_He continued his walk, he was not far off Trafalgar now. Maybe just thirty more minutes and he could join decent society again and have his mood and demeanour admired by his fellow men. In a dark alleyway he felt a sharp pain in his calf. If it hadn’t been for the lack of sound, he would said he had been shot. Warm blood was running down and pooling into his shoe and his heart beat began to race, panic was beginning to set in. He attempted to run, not bothering to even look down at his leg and what he felt to be lodged there. Another five steps and another sharp sensation invaded his neck and he toppled to the ground. He had been shot, just without any bullets. Someone turned him over, so that he could face the sky.  He knew he was dying because above him stood a woman with angelic features. Her hair framed her face, and he knew…he just knew she was there for him. But then she got closer, and the eyes that had seem divine were now dark and alive with some queer fire. Then if she was no angel, then she must be devil. God knows he had been good, why then would the devil be here for him? His vision was growing dimmer and the last he was the she-devil’s gaze on him. Lord have mercy on him._

* * *

 

“His tongue’s been cut out, sir.” Said an officer as he examined the corpse in the chill of the morning. He had pulled out flowers from the poor bastard’s mouth, red, pink, and white. He could not place their name and neither did he care.

“ ‘E was not killed ‘ere, that’s fo’ sure. No blood near ‘im.” Said another bending down to get a good luck at the corpse. “Looks like the Bloody Gardner strikes again.”

Jack Crawford held the flowers that were once in the man’s mouth. He recognized them to be Camellias. He then looked at the way the body had been placed. It certainly had been staged and he knew it was meant to be found here, near extravagant shops. His tongue had been removed, certainly to signify the sin the killer thought he was punishing. Maybe the man lying there had said too much, maybe he had spoken only in lies. But there was a lack of finesse to the scene, somehow. And the flowers, they did not belong. Camellias, love, affection, admiration. That could not have been meant for the victim. Unless, unless…no he did not want to jump to conclusions so suddenly. He took deep breath and steadied himself.

“Take him away. We do not need to give these people more of a show than they’ve already gotten.”

 

* * *

 

Bedelia was sitting in her garden, stroking Maryse’s head, a thin smile was on her lips. She watched Alana arch her back and steadying her hands and she placed an arrow in her bow. She had mentioned that though she may play the piano poorly, she could fire an arrow with expert skill. It was a refined and appropriate sport for the female figure, she explained, and with it she had gained the unwanted approval of many men. Colette was playfully barking, as if expecting to fetch the arrow that was about to be released onto a target.  It was a quiet afternoon and its warmth was causing her to feel uneasy. She wondered how well Alana must be fairing under all those garments, but her soft smile and the wayshe was gently shushing Colette, made her seem at ease. From where she was sitting she could not see the way her eyes were most certainly darkening as the arrow flew from her hand and lodged itself with great strength almost to the centre of the target.

“Quite the markswoman.” She kept her voice low, even now. Bedelia enjoyed the way Alana responded to it. There was always an immodest smile and shake of the head.

“As I’ve said before, it is my only practical skill.” She lowered her bow as if considering something for a few seconds.  “Do you not want at least to give it a try? Indulge me, please.”

“When you put it like that, I am not allowed to refuse you.”  Bedelia rose and took the bow and arrow from Alana’s hand, lightly brushing it as she did so.  She straightened her posture and set her sights on the target. She never did acquire a taste for archery, it lacked a certain degree of passion or even danger. Unexpectedly, she felt one of Alana’s hand on her lower back and another just between her ribs.

“Stand straighter and breathe in when aiming for the target.” There was a soft authority in her voice. Bedelia remained silent, and took her advice, curious to see where this would end. “Only breathe out when the arrow has left your hand.” She was tempted to hold her breath for as long as possible as if to keep her hands on her, but the arrow had soon left her hand and hit one of the outer rings of the target.

“Not too bad, was it?” She asked warmly as she pulled away, but there was no innocence in her voice.

“Not as bad as I had remembered, no.” Her eyes locked in with her eyes, attempting to restore the connection that been broken only a few seconds ago.

A few more arrows were shot with Alana’s guidance, and Bedelia breathed in her scent. It was sweet and it was enveloped the smell of the grass that had stained her dress. It would be too easy to get lost in her. She’d willingly being do so for the past few weeks. She would catch herself listening for her breathing as she played a Nocturne or focusing on her lips as she recited lines that had changed her life years back.  And yet, there were those feelings of possessiveness. A knot would form in her stomach as she heard the carriage take her back to South Kensington. Rationally, she knew Alana still had a role to play for her own sake but a bigger part of her wanted to burn the very foundations of society. They’d be driven mad if acts and subtlety were still dominating their lives. They were both leaning dangerously close to a ledge she felt they should just jump off.

The rest of the afternoon, could have been characterised as sinful by the sheer sloth of the situation. Alana, at one point, had been defeated by an ancient philosopher and given into a restful sleep. Bedelia had switched onto the newspaper she had been neglecting all day. She would read a few articles and the maybe join her companion in slumber, but then a minuscule article caught her eye.

_BLOODY GARDNER STRIKES AGAIN by Freddie Lounds._

_The body of Steven Marshall was found yesterday morning in Coventry Street. More delicate readers be advised. Marshall’s tongue had been removed and his mouth were found Camellias of every colour. Scotland Yard advises all gentlemen to be wary of any strange activity in the areas of Central London._

It was by no means a detailed or long account of the violence that the body had been exposed to. A male body could not be sensationalized she supposed. Alana was correct in assuming that men could not handle being made vulnerable in such a public way. There was very real terror being spread in the hearts of men. The killer’s choice of flower, now seemed to be the most important detail.  She ripped the article from the paper, folded it neatly and put it in her pocket.

The sound of paper being ripped had been enough to awaken Alana. There was a certain surprise in her eyes and a slight embarrassment on having drifted off to sleep.

“I’m sorry. Did I sleep very much?” She asked sitting up.

“No. I wouldn’t think it’s been more than a half hour. And don’t apologize. The day lends itself for unplanned slumber like that.”

“Did you find anything interesting in the paper?” Alana asked eyeing the paper still in her hands, her voice was expectant.

“Maybe.”

A small smile formed on Alana’s lips but it soon vanished as she realised how close the Sun was to setting. It was almost time for her usual return to the Howards’.

“We have yet to have supper together, you know.” Bedelia said as she watched her follow the Sun’s descent. “There have been many afternoon teas, but never any supper.”

“I know.” Now she was looking at her, as if trying to find the right words or the right thoughts even. “I think Mr. and Mrs. Howard can spare me for a night. I will stay.”  At this, Bedelia simply nodded with a discrete smile on her lips.

Alana soon wrote a note to her hosts, letting them know she would be having supper with her dear friend. And considering that she did not wish to arrive at their home too late and disturb their peace, she would not be spending the night at South Kensington but at Richmond upon Thames. The note was soon taken to the driver who would deliver it who preserve the cordiality between her and the Howards.

Supper had been the least important part of the evening, as it turned out. It was quickly had, as the cook did not have enough time to prepare something out of the ordinary for a guest.  However, the wine had been good and plenty and there had been more than one brushes of hands.  After supper, she led Alana to what had once been her father’s study but was now hers. It was one of the few room that was always kept clean and well arranged.

It was filled with medical books that been marked for their relevancy, she had read them all more than once. Her father had often lamented the pity that it was that a mind like hers had been born onto a female body. Those comments were always appreciated and resented, but she knew her sex gave her the liberty to lead her own internal and very private life. However, she had not led her here for educational purposes. She pushed against one of the book shelves until there was a distinct click which revealed a smaller room behind the false shelf. Alana looked both bewildered and amazed.

“My father was both a very private and paranoid man. He enjoyed smoking in this solitary room.” She motioned for her to follow her and she did so, with a bemused laugh.  In the middle of the room stood a great silver and cooper Islamic tobacco pipe. An Anatolian friend of her fathers had gifted to him, as a sign of gratitude for saving his son’s life. He never cared much for it, as he did not prefer his tobacco flavoured or inhaling the smoke through something other than a cigar, but he kept the gift all the same. Bedelia, on the other hand, had developed a taste for it. It was a much delicate way of smoking and the light headedness that accompanied was often welcomed.  

“What is…”

“It’s a tobacco pipe. Or rather, just a pipe.”

“I’d never seen anything quite like it. I do not believe a great deal of people have, especially if they are from Durham.”

A sofa had been placed around the pipe, as to be able to smoke more comfortably.  They both sat next to each other, to share the nozzle.  After the necessary set up, she inhaled for the first time as the water bubbled in the pipe. Alana had seemed hesitant at first but soon enough she had no problem exhaling smoke as her lips formed an ‘O’.  The wine and the smoking was allowing them to spend their time in peaceful silence and Bedelia’s head already felt lighter on her shoulders.  She held on to the nozzle and moved closer to Alana. Her face was inches from hers and by pure instinct, Alana parted her lips. Bedelia’s lips barely touched her as she transferred smoke onto her.  A satisfied grin grew on her face as she watched Alana break into laughter. It was not in mockery, but it in glee. She stole the nozzle from her hands and imitated her, her lips lingering for a precious second on hers.

Time was lost in the room but in a moment when they both needed to catch their breaths Bedelia broke their silence.  “The Bloody Gardner struck again, apparently.”

“No, I do not think that is true.” Her eyes were closed and her head titled back on the sofa. “It’s not the same killer.”

“You sound so convinced.”

“I am. Steven Merchant was not a message for the general audience.”

“Oh?” She inhaled smoke from the nozzle once more. “Then what was he, then?”

Her tone grew suggestive as blue smoke escaped her.

“A love letter for the actual Bloody Gardner.” She sighed in apparent relief. “Sings of the killer’s longing and admiration for her.” Alana then composed herself as if in a quiet panic and dared not to look at Bedelia.

There it was. That uncanny clarity, that would have frightened lesser people, able to pierce through the well-constructed of armours. It was clear gaze and yet for the first she could not raise her eyes to her. Afraid that she had made a fatal mistake.  She inhaled smoke from the nozzle one more time and turned Alana’s face to hers and their lips met but did not break apart.  The nozzle was abandoned, as their mouths were too preoccupied with one another to give it too much thought.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Breathing. She could not remember if she had taken a breath of air in the last minutes, her head was light with wine and fruit flavoured tobacco and the taste of Bedelia. Her sides and chest felt constricted by her corset, the air out of Alana’s lungs seemed to have been squeezed out of her. It all became too much for her body and she broke away from the other woman, gasping for air. Alana was flustered and aware of the sweat dampening her neck and back, she looked at Bedelia, whose hunger was only visible in the dark of her eyes. Not a word was uttered as Bedelia rose from her spot on the sofa, her composure as intact as ever. There was a true magnetism to her, and Alana felt herself drawn to her the way a sailor is attracted to the crashing waves of a perfect storm. With her lungs still struggling, she followed her friend out of the secret room and up a flight of stairs, noticing how darkness and the moonlight altered space. If it weren’t for the blood rushing all over her body and her racing pulse she would have assumed she had walked into a strange dream, a dream that poets could only envy but never have.

They had reached her bedroom, the flames of the fire were mixing in with the pale moonlight and in her light-headedness it was a thing of strange beauty. Fingers were delicately cutting out of her dress and her flesh felt the coolness of the night when her shoulders were free. Alana felt life being breathed into her when Bedelia fingers moved to unlace her corset, she had always felt this satisfaction every night when she was helped out of it but this was what gunpowder must feel when meeting a spark. “There,” Bedelia seemed to say with no words spoken, “You’re no longer in a cage.” She then turned her back to Alana, indicating that the gesture should be reciprocated, and she did it with ease, only her soft cotton undergarments met her hands once she had stripped her of her dress. Alana wished she knew how their bodies ended up pressed against each other on the freshness of the sheets of the bed, but all she could recall the way they seemed to be consuming each other. Sounds were escaping from the deepest corners of her self, and being caught by Bedelia’s lips. She felt as if she had been thirsty and had been looking at the sea for days and was finally given a cup of fresh water. Alana wanted to drink gulps of Bedelia to quench her newly discovered thirst. It felt like she could never get her fill of her.

“It was time we jumped off that ledge together.” Bedelia told her with her voice as calm as ever, only her glistening skin and the hair splayed against her pillow were evidence of their actions.  “How fortunate we are to not have been met by rocks in our fall.”

“Was that a concern of yours?” She was astounded her mind was even capable of formulating a response. There was a heaviness to her body that she had never experienced and sleep was threatening to take her away.

“A passing one.” She traced the outline of Alana’s jaw as she said. “There is always risk involved in such things.”

“Some would call that the price of life.” Her eyes were closed and her body was engaged in fighting exhaustion and the fire the other woman’s touch caused on her skin.

“I would too. Some cannot afford to pay it, while some refuse to.”

“Should those be denied their life, then?” Even in her semi-conscious state Alana knew this was a bold question.

“The cowards and the weak-minded, you mean?” There was no pause in her touch as Bedelia asked this. "Yes, I think they should.”

“That night when we met,” Alana struggled with stringing her thoughts and words together but she needed to keep the conversation afloat. “You asked if there was an impartial judge who ascribed value to our lives…”

“Are you asking me if I think myself to be impartial?” She could feel Bedelia’s face hovering above hers, her breath on her cheeks.

“I suppose I am.”

“God is not impartial. Even He struck down those who would not bow to His vision. How is a sinner to achieve what He cannot?”

“‘Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.’” Alana recited in agreement feeling her voice quietly drifting away. “Fire and brimstone is what we are, then.”

“Those who dare to look at our work will turn into a pillar of salt.” Bedelia pressed her lips against Alana’s neck, tracing the pathway blood followed to her face. It was the last thing Alana felt before she let the night take her.

 

* * *

 

 

_My dear daughter,_

_Do not worry I have not covered your furniture, even if I had harboured the hope that you would have written to tell me as much. I am glad, however, to know that your time in London has been a pleasant one. Mrs. Howard has written to tell me about your outings in society, how delightful it has been to have you in her company. It is a mother’s greatest pleasure to know that her lessons have been taken to heart and practiced in a way that only adds to her pride. You are virtuous, Alana, and it pains to see it going to waste, when it could be put into good use in a home of your own. That has been a common topic in my correspondence with Mrs. Howard, she has informed me that there are many fine men among her husband’s company, some who have even come into your orbit, and yet there seems to be no interest on your part._

_For all your graces, I fear that soon you might be over-staying your welcome at the Howards’ home. I would have not thought so since you first left our home over two months ago. I did not think you would have wished to stay in the South for so long, I never thought this letter would have been necessary. If there are no prospects in London or in its society, I bid you to return home within a fortnight. That should give you sufficient time to say your goodbyes and for a few more outings in the society you have come to enjoy._

_Your loving mother,_

_Therese._

Alana’s first instinct had been to throw the letter into the fire, but then she thought about her mother’s words becoming smoke and the poison they would be in her lungs. She ought to have torn it to shreds, but she settled for placing it back in its envelope and keeping it in her pocket. Certainly someone had written to her mother, who may or may not have been Mary Howard, to inform her of her friendship with Bedelia. It was a strange thing that her mother should find this objectionable enough to exclude any mention of it in her letter, such an attachment should have been seen as advantageous in her eyes. It should have thrilled her, as the Du Mauriers had always belonged to high society not just in London but in Paris.  Or was she truly just concerned about the extent of the Howard’s hospitality? No matter how much she dissected and examined her mother’s words, she could not come to definite conclusion. Sentences that should have been clear and intentions transparent, became obscure in her mind. Her relationship with Bedelia made her reconsider every letter and every period of that letter, trying to decide how much had been communicated to her mother. She was torn between dismissing her thoughts as those of a woman who has too much to hide and accepting them as valid concerns. However, whatever she labelled them, she must take action lest she return to a life so inferior to whom she had become.

 Alana did not shared the contents of her letter with Mary Howard, she made up some details about mundane happenings at Chester-le-Street, and a deal going awry in her brother’s business, but said nothing about her mother’s wishes when Mary inquired about it. Alana only asked if she may borrow the coach to go to Richmond-upon-Thames once more, the driver not need wait for her or be at her disposition, as Ms. Du Maurier had most very likely made supper plans for the night. Mary agreed with a suspicious expression and wished she would give the mistress of the house her good wishes. “What a fine pillar of salt, you would make.” Alana found herself thinking as she thanked her for kindness.

With little hesitation in her step, Alana stepped out of the coach as soon as the horses stopped their gallop at the Du Maurier estate and merely wished Clementine a good afternoon as she headed for the study. There she found Bedelia engrossed in a fairly large volume, her dogs at her feet. They stirred in recognition, Colette standing to greet her, demanding to be pet.  The other woman looked up from her book, pleased to see she had arrived, her expression changing once she registered Alana’s look of concern.

“Has something happened?” She asked still seated at her desk.

“I received a letter from Chester-le-Street today.” Alana produced the envelope from her pocket and placed it in Bedelia’s hand. “Read it.”

“It would appear your mother and Mrs. Howard had an agenda of their own when they arranged your visit to London.” Bedelia replied coolly after having read it. “Are these men in your orbit real or products of Mrs. Howard’s imagination? I cannot picture who she means.”

Alana was stunned by her reaction, she appeared to have ignored the most significant part of the letter and she was taken back by her coolness. “Did you not read the last paragraph of the letter?”

“Of course I did.” This time Bedelia rose from her seat and handed her back the offending document. “I just do not see anything about it that is so grave to have put you in this state.”

“Then a forced separation would mean nothing to you? Clearly I am to leave within a fortnight, as I am in no position to procure myself a fiancé.” Alana said with hurt audible in her voice.

Bedelia smiled, amused by her reaction. “If I read it correctly, your mother’s main concern is you breeching etiquette and over-staying your welcome at the Howards’. There is a simple solution to that.”

“Is there?” Alana wanted to hear Bedelia’s voice confirm what had already been floating in her mind.

“You should leave the Howard residence and become a permanent guest in mine.” Bedelia’s tone remained uniformly calm as the words left her mouth. “You thought about it as well, why else show me the letter?”

“I did not want to ask.” She admitted, her eyes meeting Bedelia’s.  “I would never want to impose my will on yours.”

“It is not an imposition.” Bedelia looped her arms with hers, leading them out of the study. “It could never be. After all, brimstone must necessarily be in the company of fire.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like I owed this story a chapter. It took me a while to find their voices again, especially after their development in season 3. It's a struggle between wanting to follow their canon characterization, which I love, and keeping them coherent within the story. The ledge metaphor is half a reference to Hannibal and Will, but I had already used the metaphor in the previous chapter, so I decided to keep it and make it a nod to them.


End file.
